


December 25th, 1981

by schmeminemily



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Remus and Sirius have a shitty Christmas, Remus is sad and angry, Sirius is also sad and angry, and vague mentions of dissociating, but it's mostly gen sorry, but its like 100 percent angst sorry, this is supposed to be a secret santa fic, this is technically a pairing fic, warning for brief descriptions of panic attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5568943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmeminemily/pseuds/schmeminemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the morning, we follow Remus, as he goes to give his respects. In the evening, we follow Sirius, as he loses a few more pieces of himself. A very short glimpse into the lives of Remus and Sirius on that first Christmas after the War, December 25th, 1981.</p>
            </blockquote>





	December 25th, 1981

**Author's Note:**

> This is a secret santa present for @starfighterdameron on tumblr! I really hope you enjoy this Kieran, I know it didn't quite follow all your prompts (and wasn't supposed to be specifically Christmas-y but shhh) but I definitely tried to get the angst in there for you. And I know the pairings are kind of subtle, but I did my best. This was the first thing that popped into my head, in any case. I really really hope you enjoy it. Merry Christmas!
> 
> Please note this work is unbetaed so all mistakes, grammatical or comprehension-wise are entirely my own. This is the first piece I'm posting in a very long time (we're talking years) so please know that I'm a little rusty. 
> 
> Please enjoy the angst!

_December 25 th, 1981 – 8:16 am_

As dawn creeps over the horizon, all is still and not a creature is stirring in Godric’s Hollow. All are tucked safely and snuggly in bed, dreaming of sugarplums and presents to be unwrapped once the morning really gets underway. All – even the little ones – remain peacefully, fast asleep. All but one, that is.

In the graveyard a creature is stirring, winding his way among the headstones. He trails footprints in the snow, gait unhurried, bearing a weight of sorrow. Eyes downcast, shoulders slumped, chin tucked deep within a tattered scarf. His hands jammed in his pockets, clenched just like the rest of him. He is a man on a funeral march, passing row upon row of grave markers, searching for one in particular.

Eventually, he finds his quarry.

In the quiet calm of Christmas morning, Remus Lupin kneels down in front of a gleaming white headstone. He lets his eyes linger on the marble, tracing the names of dear friends, and words that seem to do too little to convey how important these people were in life.

_The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death_. He wonders who chose it. It could have been James, certainly has the arrogant flair that he would’ve liked. Sirius would’ve liked it too, if James did. Best not to think of Sirius. Remus’s fists clench tighter.

Remus hates it, hates what it means that he’s reading these words carved here in bright white marble. He shouldn’t be here. _They_ shouldn’t be here, buried beneath the snow. It’s Christmas, and they should be alive.

Beneath the headstone, the ground is barren, pristine snow untouched. This monument is unlike the statue in the square, whose base is littered in flowery wreaths and colourful paper wrapped packages: gifts from strangers, heralding the parents of the Saviour, and their sacrifice for the sake of the Wizarding World. Those are not meaningless gifts, but they come from people who don’t understand, who didn’t know the Potters, not like he did.

When he’d first seen the mounds of gifts, he’d almost vanished the lot.

They came from well-wishers, he knows, and an honest desire to do something to commemorate two people who’d been lost in the war. But these strangers could drop off their gifts and return to a world of celebration – _rejoice for the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead_! None of them care. None of them know the suffering felt by those Lily and James left behind.

Here, kneeling in the snow, Remus almost wishes he had given in, banished it all to who knows where. A petty action, but one that might have made him feel better, might have helped him forget that he’s here, shivering in the cold with tears freezing against his cheeks.

Heart heavy, Remus reaches into his inner pocket, pulling out a simple bouquet. Lilies, of course; innocence and purity. Rosemary for remembrance. An olive branch and poppy twined together; peacefulness in eternal sleep. And finally, a single yellow rose: for friendship, undying love, and apology.

He lays the bouquet in the snow beneath his best friends’ grave, and spells it so the freshness of the flowers will last. Lily was always better at charms, but this will have to do.

Remus’s chest is tight as he stands, laying one hand on the headstone and bowing his head so only Lily and James will be able to hear him when he speaks.

_Merry Christmas. It’s not the same without you. What was the point in winning a war if you aren’t here with me? I miss you. Harry misses you too, I’m sure._

When the dam opens it all rushes out, and Remus stands there for what feels like hours. He cries, apologizes for letting them down. He hiccups his way through pleaded promises, and begs his friends to come back to him. Fresh snow begins to fall, dusting Remus’s shoulders and hair. He continues to stand there, curled in on himself in grief. There are so many people to blame, but in the anguish of this moment, Remus curses the one man who ruined it all, who betrayed them, and broke Remus’s heart. Sirius Black. Remus can never forgive him but damn it if there isn’t a part of him that doesn’t still miss him.

Remus falls back to his knees.

 

~****~

 

_December 25, 1981 – 8:32 pm_

Sirius wakes up and doesn’t know what day it is. This is the sixth time it’s happened, and each time throws him slightly more off kilter. Groggily he crawls to the wall, pulling himself up into a seated position, using the cold rocks for support against his back. A few blinks and the world comes into focus, half-conscious blur dissolving into clarity. There’s no need to adjust to the dark. Azkaban is always dark. Sirius is greeted by the sight of dirty stone walls, manacles hanging from the ceiling, and his single window, unbarred but no thicker than an arrow slit. And of course, the constant, oppressive presence of the guards as they prowl.

In the light of his renewed vision, Sirius has a moment to wonder, amused, if this is how James felt every time he put his glasses on, like he was being introduced to the world in clear for the first time. In the next instant the thought runs dry, slips through his fingers like sand and he is choking on sawdust. It passes quick as a wink and Sirius is left clutching his chest, breathing harsh. The thought of James’s glasses means nothing to him.

Head falling back against the wall, Sirius gazes out his window. It’s not much, but even a little is enough. It must be night now (same day as the last time he was awake – probably – since Padfoot had scraped out another tally in the morning – probably this morning, maybe) because Sirius can see the stars. Canis major is too low in the sky for Sirius to find his namesake but Orion is prominent, Betelgeuse and Bellatrix shining brightly in his shoulders. A wave of hatred washes through Sirius at the sight and he spares a moment to curse his cousin.

She’s here now too, had arrived only recently. He’d recognize her piercing voice anywhere, and it’s definitely her he can hear screaming sometimes, ranting and raving, praising her Lord.

The dementors made quick work of her, and after only a couple weeks she’s near-completely fallen into a pit of depraved insanity. Sirius feels a flush of pride at having outlasted her – it melts away almost as soon as it comes.

He doesn’t care about Bellatrix anymore. Hates her, sure. But he doesn’t care. She will rot here with him, and that is all that matters.

He continues to stare out the window, eyes glazing over as he watches the stars twinkle. At least he has the stars, as constant as the sun, never shall their light go out. Not in his lifetime, at least. If they can keep on shining through each cold and hopeless night, then maybe so can he.

Sirius pulls his knees into his chest in a semblance of conserving warmth. He hasn’t felt warm in a long time, any inkling of joy pulled from him before he can even hope to enjoy it. He doesn’t feel the cold either now. It’s all gone numb. He shivers, if only for something to do.

When the stars start to blur and his eyelids feel heavy, Sirius lets his gaze drift down from the window to the wet walls, slimy things drenched in mucous and an air of despair. The wall directly across from him is marked, clawed with tallies for each day he’s been here. Counting them depresses him more than anything, but Sirius wants to stay awake, revels in any time he can consider conscious. And so he counts.

Ten groups of five tallies with four to spare.

Fifty-four. He’s been here for fifty-four days. Not even two full months, but it feels like a lifetime.

Less than two months. It must be around Christmas. Last Christmas: Harry’s first, with laughter and toy racing brooms and a room full of light and music. Sirius misses it before it’s even gone, the joy of it stripped from his mind in an instant, all those colours dulled to sepia. He’s watching an old photograph with people and places he remembers caring about, but just doesn’t anymore.

Now it only makes him sad.

To think, he’d spend a Christmas here, in Azkaban. Alone. His first Christmas without James. James. Oh, James. And Lily too. James and Lily. Lily and James.

Overwhelmed, Sirius sinks into nightmare. He doesn’t really sleep anymore, but he dreams, caught in a snare between wake and rest. And now he dreams in shades of red and green – ironically symbolic of the season. He dreams of emerald snakes striking at lions with ruby eyes. Lily’s hair, a halo ‘round her head, splayed much too gently. Her eyes, terror-filled, reflected back at him from his godson’s face. A fresh cut: jagged, lightning bolt. James (oh James) slumped on the ground, eyes should be empty but instead they flash vivid, horrible green, the last thing they’d ever see. He dreams of red-hot anger, Muggle blood spilled across the pavement. And Peter. Peter is gone.

 

~****~

 

_December 25, 1981 – 10:01 pm_

Waking up doesn’t really feel like being awake anymore. Sirius’s blood is humming, sorrow whistling in his veins. _It should have been me_ , Secret Keeper. _Not Peter Pettigrew,_ traitor. _It should have been him_ , lying lifeless on the floor. Sirius’s muscles sing for vengeance, wish he truly had committed the murder he’s imprisoned for.

Instead of accepting apathy, Sirius clings to anger. Grief, regret, and hatred are all he’s allowed and so he will bask in them, hold them close like proof of existence. For the first time in a long time (fifty-four days) Sirius’s eyes spark.

It only lasts so long, stews back down into despair. Listless, arms slump, body weak. Mind muddled like soup, thoughts heavy. His eyes flit through the same motions, floor to window, linger on the stars, window to wall. There, his vision catches, fixates. Tallies etched like a lifeline turn into a noose, and suddenly he’s scrambling, heart beating fast, back pressed against the wall while the shadows close in. Sirius spirals.

Fifty-four. Fifty-four. Fifty-four.

Only fifty-four days.

There’s something anxious crawling up his throat and Sirius gasps, hands clawing at his neck. Fifty-four days. It’s only been fifty-four days. He’s already losing track of the time, days blurring into nights, too much time spent half awake, trapped in fitful sleep.

Can he really make it to fifty-five?

Sirius squeezes his eyes shut and hugs himself tightly, rocking slightly against the wall. He has fits like these, more frequently every day. He just needs to remember. He’s made it fifty-four days. He can make it one more. Then another, and another if he has to. He can do it. He has to, has to hold on. Because one day – any day now – someone is going to realize. He’s innocent. He didn’t do it, not what they think he did. Remus will realize. Remus will come.

_Remus._

The dam breaks.

Remus with his shabby clothes and gentle smiles and calloused hands that held Sirius like he was important. Remus with his scars and ticklish ears and laugh that rang out more cheerful than any bell. Moony who ran with Padfoot and Prongs in the night. Remus whose mouth was soft as rose petals even though the rest of him was rough. Remus with his sandy hair and sad, puppy eyes. Remus with his loopy handwriting and dainty teacup hold.

Remus, who Sirius hadn’t trusted at the end. Remus who had always been there. Remus, who Sirius couldn’t hold onto tight enough.

Sirius is falling too far too quickly, has avoided this, hoarded it as long as he could. Even now as Sirius feels the fire blazing up within him, basks in it, tears welling in his eyes from sheer joy – the shadows comes, heavy and suffocating, to smother it. He sobs, hands reaching into the darkness, grasping at nothing as the warmth of _Remus_ is ripped from him, drained away into something listless and grey.

They are there, the same images. But he feels nothing.

Sirius crumbles.

 

 


End file.
